


Flowers

by maliciousfisheeves



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Ciaran appears briefly but I figure i'd leave he out of the character tag because that'd muddy it up, Gwyndolin shows up briefly as well, I'm sorry this is sad, M/M, choking /, strangulation /, thats a lie IM NOT, there's a little poetry, there's a serious beat down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliciousfisheeves/pseuds/maliciousfisheeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A most terrible of flowers grows in a complacent sunlight. When it blooms, even the most compassionate of lovers come to blows-- and it creates an even more terrible weakness, one more insidious and dangerous when it goes to the heart of the Abysswalker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers

Forgive me, if you can, my love

For I have failed

 

Forgive me, if you can, for when I rode it was with anger in my heart

Anger at you. And everyone. A fatal wound inside my breast

As if a dagger had been planted,

 

By your hands

 

It drove deep into my heart, a chink in my armor

And in that smallest of weaknesses the dark found purchase.

 

I am drowning, my love, and I will never see you.

I’m sorry.

 

 

 

A thousand burning eyes into my sight, into my mind. Suddenly everything is gone, and I feel the most desperate of horrors in my chest.

I am afraid. I am so, so afraid, and all I can think of is how angered you were. How we breathed fire in each other’s faces.

How we shall never make amends.

It hurts. Everything hurts. I cannot move, nor breathe, nor think. Everything is swathed in never-ending dark.

 

 

Do you remember? When we were young, foolish and stupid? When we journeyed off on our own? When we dreamt of a life outside of all this? One in which I could hold you without fear you'd die the next day, and you the same?

What foolish desires, what stupid dreams.

 

For one of us to be consumed like this—what disgrace. What dishonor.

 

You will think of me poorly, won’t you? A stain to be forgotten and ignored. Forgotten, for the better. How foolish was I to lead you astray.

To lead you to such ideas, I struggled with my ideas, but I resisted them—you? No. You wanted to build that dream to a reality because you believed in what your own hands could do, not what other tried to do to stop them. So you spoke in our idle hours of running away, ours hands together, and we'd never look back.

But we both knew it was all but sweet flavored lies, we were both too afraid to resist, and too proud to be disloyal.

 

I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry I led you down such a terrible path; T’would have been better just to become complacent. To simply take orders as they were and not ponder what they meant, for I know how you burn now. Your rebellious spirit is like a great flame, barely contained within the walls of your flesh. And it hurts you.

I doubt that I was the one to spur such a fire, but I know I stoked it.

 

And now, here we are. I am to suffer, you are too, and we will never comfort one another again.

 

 

Forgive me, my love. I was but a fool, after all.

 

You were right.

 

 

 

 

            Sunlight came down in long beams from the pale grey sky, a light shower beginning to fall upon the sundrenched city, making it too become pale like the clouds—a sort of ghostly fair type color. Stone so readily bathed in warmth was now cool and calm. The city was mostly silent, as more and more rain came down and its inhabitants scurried inside.

           A sweet, flowery fragrance drifted through the air alongside the smell of the rain. A sort of savory odor, something picturesque. Something normally enjoyed. It was utterly pleasant, but it didn't mix well with but one inhabitant's mood. If anything, the smell became more sickly sweet—something to regularly be enjoyed but for that one moment it was a source of irritation.

            Sir Ornstein stayed outside, at the balcony, awaiting their return. His eyes were narrow, a storm in his chest. He’d been less angry than he was when he’d left, and now he had an ugly scar to bare it; well, perhaps not ugly, but it scarred nonetheless. A cut, not too deep, going across his nose from where Artorias had struck him.

            He almost hadn’t believed it when it’d happened, but it’d happened nonetheless. Nothing stung more than when their squabble had turned to clash—how it’d gotten so out of hand that they were coming to blows. His mind almost did not process it—when Artorias’s hands had wringed around his neck and Ornstein was driving his thumbs under Artorias’s throat, clawing the rest of his fingers into his face, it didn’t feel real: perhaps it was the lessening blood flow to his head, but even so. It was as though he was dreaming. 

            He’d only elusively recalled Gough ripping Artorias off of him, Ciaran pushing Ornstein back onto his feet as they both coughed back their breath. The feel of blood rushing back to his brain nearly made him pass out, but rush of air to his lungs was a godsend.

            He’d wanted to knock Artorias out. He’d wanted to kick him in the teeth again, but his own exhaustion restrained him to snarling at the man, that and Ciaran gripping so hard onto his forearm that it told him she'd knock him out if he even dared to do so.

            Artorias seemed more then active, however, because he jammed his heel into Gough’s toes and shouted curses at Ornstein all the while Gough dragged him away.

            What was he? A beast? He’d certainly acted like it—but Ornstein didn’t care about that. He’d let his anger consume him as well after the first blow, because he’d been so upset—not by the strike itself, they’d bashed each other around before, but because of his behavior.

 

            _He’d ignored direct orders, shouted at several people, and stormed out of the war table meeting. Of course Ornstein trailed after, disciplining him—it was his job. He was knight captain._

 _But something had changed, something was different._ Something he’d wished he’d recognized. Some unforeseen tension he didn’t understand, and was blind to.

_“Ornstein, don’t bother.” Artorias hissed, throwing a hand out as if to block Ornstein’s advancement._

_Ornstein stopped, lowering Artorias’s hand, “I understand that thou'rt angry, Artorias, but thou cans’t—thou cans’t not act out in such ways, and thou understandeth that well.”_

_Artorias huffed, then laughed, exasperated, “But of course, just do whatever thou’rt told even when thine knowledge is better than those from whom thy orders come from? Correct? Isn’t that what thou doest?”_

_Ornstein felt the comment set something off within him, a sort of anger—was it at being challenged or was it because he’d been questioned?_ (Those things were separate)

_“I do not merely follow orders, I give them. To thee. To lots of people. What maketh this so different?”_

_Artorias rolled his eyes, turning away, “Because—this time_ is _different, Ornstein. I know, I feel it. It isn’t like before, this time is worse. Much worse.”_

_Ornstein grumbled, “Thou art a knight,_ Sir _Artorias. Thou doest thy duty not because it’s easy, dost thou not?”_

_Artorias’s head whipped around, staring at him as if he’d set something off as well._

_“I doest mine duty because I want to—to the best of my abilities, and I know more about the abyss than anyone in Anor Londo! And I know full well that this time is different!” Artorias hissed, and took a step forward._

_Ornstein did not step back from Artorias’s challenge, even though the man was nearly a foot taller and whose imposing figure would normally scare the wits out of someone, “Even if such is different, does that imply anyone else can doest it? Dost thou want another to doest thine duty for thee? Is that it?” He’d hissed back._

Honor. Loyalty. _It burned Ornstein most to have his questioned, and he knew Artorias was of a similar mindset, and that is why he’d said what he said. He didn’t exactly know if he was trying to reprehend Artorias, or if he was arguing with him anymore. Perhaps he was just yelling, at said point._

_“For the sake of the Gods, Ornstein—I just need time is all, thou cans’t not expect me to rush off if I don’t know what I’m to face!” Artorias snarled._

_“If it is as bad as thou believe’st, then time is of the essence!” Ornstein shouted back._

 

 _“I don’t have a death wish,_ Sir _Ornstein, if I ride out without knowing the extent, then I’ll die and no one will be left to stop it—unless thou desire’st to go in with me! Or send in some other hapless fool. Just throw more bodies at these difficulties until it goes away, correct? Isn’t that how we build everything here—on a mountain of corpses!” Artorias roared, right into his face._

_Ornstein felt his blood burn. “If thou’rt to be so disrespectful to thy betters like this, then do not expect any help! Thou art a knight of Gwyn, act like it! Stop quivering in your boots for once in thy life, thine coward!” He’d thundered back._

_They may as well have been breathing fire at one another._

_And then Artorias hit him, right across the face. He’d broken his nose. For a moment, they both stood there, stunned, as Ornstein’s hands floated up to his nose, blood gushing down it._ After consideration, Ornstein figured Artorias didn’t mean to hit him, but at the time he’d just went blank.

_And then he’d tackled the man. Something cracked when Artorias hit the ground—probably the tile underneath—then it’d become suddenly more desperate. Why? He wasn’t sure. For him, it was the need not to lose, he thought—whomever was to lose who walk away with their pride is shambles and the other, bloodied and bruised, the victor._

_It was childish, probably, but when it came to beings whom were somewhere above eight feet tall suddenly the infancy of it became more serious, such as when Ornstein had smashed Artorias’s jaw with his heel or when Artorias kneed him so hard in the ribs, they’d fractured, and the cracked tile of course._

_When Artorias had pinned him to the ground and gripped his hands at his neck, a small dark place in his heart thought Artorias might kill him, and said place was mostly in control of his actions at the moment, so he’d managed somewhat easily to tear his arms away and jab his thumbs into Artorias’s neck. For once, it was probably a good thing Ornstein wasn’t wearing his claws gauntlets._

_Then, ever so sudden, Gough had yanked Artorias off of him. Ornstein limped off to go lick his wounds, too angry to even bother figure out what happened to Artorias. He didn’t care for questions either, just got patched up as best he could and retired early for the day._

_He didn’t sleep, though. Despite his aching body he couldn’t rest, and eventually Ciaran came to visit, or rather check and make sure he’d not drowned in his own blood from a punctured lung, or something—_ upon further consideration, she really was just making sure he was alright.

 

_“What was that over?” Ciaran asked._

_He grumbled through his answer. Ciaran said nothing and listened._

_“Will thou’st see us off, at least? Before we leave?” She requested tentatively._

_Ornstein huffed and flipped over, away from her. The answer was no._

_“Well, then. I suppose this will be goodbye.” Ciaran sighed and descended into the evening. He knew he was being rude, but he was tired and he didn't care. So it was goodbye._

_And so it was. Ornstein briefly reconsidered, but something savage burned bright white at the thought. So he did not—not say goodbye it was._

_He did, however, walk out onto a high balcony above the main gate, watching them file out of Anor Londo and away. For a moment he’d believed none had seen him, but Ciaran looked up and made eye contact whilst mounting her horse, but did not add attention to the situation. She merely looked away._

 

 

            So, there Ornstein was, awaiting their return on that very same balcony. Because it still hurt, because he was still angry. Because he wanted to talk to him again, to find where this argument grew from, because he knew damn well it was not from Artorias’s storming from the war table, because everyone had done that at least once—including himself—so what was it?

            What terrible seed and planted itself in them, and had grown unchecked for so long so that when it burst into bloom it was so violently that they turned to try and tear it out of one another, what had caused it?

 

           He eventually departed his vigil, but only temporarily. Every morning and every evening he stood, waiting as the sun climbed high or descended lower into the sky. The smell of flowers and rain disappeared as the air of spring dispersed, leaving Anor Londo with only crisp, hot air. Stifling as it was, he still attended to his balcony.

 

            He was still angry, less so than before, but he was tentatively ready to try to and sort themselves out again. He could stay angry forever, but that wasn’t healthy.

            Why did Artorias hit him? Why did he fight back? And by gods, why did they nearly try and kill each other?

 

            But Artorias, nor Ciaran, nor Gough came back.

 

            Days stretched into one another, again and over again. Not a single soul returned from Oolacile—scouts sent after said days and days did not return. It became such that they no longer sent anyone, and then it became a wait to see if anyone ventured back at all, or rather if anyone at all had known what had happened.

 

            The smell of summer's flowers was different than that of spring's. Less sweet. Perhaps it was because he had none to enjoy it with.

 

            Ornstein became increasingly anxious—three of the four knights sent out, and none to return at all? And their scouts as well? What was going on—something within him needed to find out, but he couldn’t leave on his own, not without asking (as though he were a child.)

 

            “Prithee, M’lady Gwyndolin—May I venture there myself? Surely I am skilled enough—perhaps with a small party to aid, we can – “

 

            Gwyndolin held up one hand, moving not another muscle, and so Ornstein stopped his speech, “Nay, Sir Ornstein. If some terrible malady were to befall the other three, we need not the final knight of Lord Gwyn to have befallen a similar fate.”

 

            Gwyndolin’s voice was emotionless, cold ice in Ornstein’s ear. He tried not to let it show on his face, but it did. He didn’t stop himself from staring up, eyes wide. Gwyndolin dismissed him, but he could sense but the barest hint of something within the princess. Not guilt, but something knowing, or at least curious. 

            Gwyndolin had to know something Ornstein did not, but he could not inquire further, he had no means to. So he searched elsewhere, used his status to inquire further and further, and found himself with nothing at all. He was swirling in empty blackness.

            Slowly it felt like he was sinking further and further, like a rock into a pond. Soon he’d hit the murky bottom and be lost, so he resisted his descent as best he could, clawing for more answers so that they may raise his head above water once again.

            He nearly turned to begging, almost exactly outside of Gwyndolin's chambers to plead, but there needed not be:

 

           One lonely soul caught him, just before he entered. They shivered in their boots, drenched head to toe, obviously terrified by their travels—what they'd seen, what they'd heard, but they recounted it all nevertheless.

 

            When the words hit his ear, he didn’t want to believe it.

 

            _“Forgive me, Sir Ornstein, I know thou were’t close with…”_ The small being may have continued speaking, but those words rolled over him.

 

            The words became like lead, and suddenly he was drowning as weights dragged him further and further. He did not hit the bottom, he just kept sinking further and further away from the sun.

 

 

 

It cannot be. Not like this, not like this.

For our kind to be so blind.

 

We were so in love. We were supposed to last—We were (are?) gods.

 

We are gods. We built ourselves from flame, cinder and ash.

We were not meant for the dark—we were but the thundering call of glorious day.

And yet.

 

It cannot be.

 

Consumed, swallowed whole.

Trapped.

Trapped.

 

The most terrible of monsters does a god make.

 

Us? So blind?

Perhaps in our sun drenched halls we allowed the beams of light to burn our eyes, and now.

And now, the dark leeched into one of our kind, but we were blind.

I was blind.

 

So, so blind.

 

Forgive me, Please, it cannot end this way.

I’m sorry I created that dent in your hull,

It can’t end like this

 

It can’t

 

It can’t

**Author's Note:**

> It isn't my best work, but I wrote it all on a whim after dancing about the idea for a few months. I wanted to write it to get back into the non-academic writing so I can work on some other stuff!  
> And, as a note, I am actually sorry about it being so sad, but this is Dark Souls and No One is Ever Happy for long.


End file.
